


The Lights Spark and Flicker

by likeabomb



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Starvation, Torture, tagged as updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:30:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeabomb/pseuds/likeabomb
Summary: After a bust on a secret prison, Dick and Jason make a concentrated effort to make sure Slade is alright, his pride be damned.





	The Lights Spark and Flicker

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of Sladerobin Weekend 2019- "Imprisonment"

In Greek mythos there is a place called Tartarus, and it is a deep abyss, used as a dungeon for the Titans so that they might feel the torment and suffering for their wickedness.

Tartarus is real.

It’s a place so few know about, and even fewer could do much about. True it might not be the cage in the bottom of the world itself with lightning bars, but it was every inch a hell in it’s own design.

So when the walls were brought down, by force, those imprisoned were shellshocked.

The crumbling of concrete and fizzling of electricity, the twisting creak of metal and the screeching of the alarms. It all sounds too far away to be real, and at this point, his mind playing tricks on him isn’t quite out of the question.

“Squad A, west wing! Detainment, no lethal force!”   
  
“Squad B, east wing! Remember, this is a rescue ops!”

Slade Wilson sits at the bottom of the Pit in chains, bound to the floor. The light on overhead is bright, horribly so, enough that he can see it behind his eyelids when he closes them. It’s hot too, and every time they flip it on, he starts to sweat again. Precious little water, it’s just another tool for their torture. An hour on, an hour off. He can’t remember if he’s managed to get any sleep, and his grasp on time slipped through his fingers what he can only assume was _days_ ago.

  
The sound of boots on the linoleum floors, the grated catwalks, the sounds of guns cocking-   
  
This can’t really be happening, can it?   
  
The dark ring around his vision hasn’t gone away in far too long, and it’s a struggle to even part his dry cracked lips. He can feel the skin pull and spots of blood from the tear. He draws a breath to try to speak, but it’s hard. He screamed himself hoarse already. But he forces past it anyway.   
  
“Somebody…”   
  
Shuffling and then nothing, and Slade’s chest pulls with anger, with frustration, with grief, at the thought they’d really managed to miss this grandiose display. At least two stories down from the window of the observation room and multiple cameras, the rest is left barren. The minimalism only makes this that much more hellish. He’s long since been overwhelmed by nothingness.   
  
Resignation washes over him and Slade’s shoulders tight and angry, ready for a fight even after his stint here in the Pit, go slack. All the fight drains out of him. For now, at least. It comes and goes with what little energy he has left set aside to scream himself hoarse.

“Mr. Wilson?”

Slade’s head snaps up to look at the window and the voice coming through the speakers. He squints, unable to see through the tint, but he stares nonetheless, chest heaving.   
  
“Hold on, I’m shutting it down.” Where once the voice sounded disbelieving, it moves into some sense of urgency and even through the speaker Slade can hear whoever it is scouring the control panel for the off switch. It takes a second, but the lights go down, and the buzz of the electrified walls quiets. It was a noise Slade hadn’t realized he’d tuned out. The cuffs don’t unlock, but for the first time since he’d been dumped in this hole, he lets his body go slack, melting against the wall. It’s still warm.   
  
The relief flooding through him makes his vision swim more than it already was but he clings to consciousness with a stubborn snarl on his lips.   
  
He can’t say that he expects Nightwing to open the door, but he manages a huff of a laugh to see Red Hood and Batman behind him.   
  
Slade blacks out before they have the cuffs off him.

 

\-----

  
  
“Jesus, look at him,” Jason muses, his mask distorting his voice just enough. “I didn’t think a guy like him could _look_ like this.”   
  
“He’s severely malnourished, dehydrated-” Bruce notes, watching Dick set the cuffs to the side.   
  
“Help me get him outside.”   
  
The two of them pitch in to help get Deathstroke out of this stinking pit.   
  
Bruce lets the two of them take him and sweeps through the halls to make sure they’ve dealt with the rest of the prisoners held captive in the facility. Everyone, prisoners and staff alike, are cuffed, or at least bound. Some were too far gone to really cuff and were instead strapped to stretchers.   
  
Jason hefts Slade, and wonders just how much weight he’s had to have lost. He and Deathstroke have a decent rapport. So do he and Dick. The two of them know Slade fairly well, so to see him in this condition makes both of their expressions sour in ways that this whole facility hadn’t already.   
  
“You figure he’s down here for a reason?” Jason asks, weaving between a few people. Slade’s body temperature is far too high, he can feel it even through his jacket, but there’s no sweat on his brow. How long had he been down there?   
  
“I’m sure there’s a reason, but I don’t know if it’s a good one.”

“I mean… he’s not exactly Mother Teresa, Dick.”

Dick’s lips purse as he glances over at Jason next to him before holding the door open, “Don’t think I don’t know, Jay, but when it comes to mercenaries and all this? It could just be a petty grudge. He offed someone that someone else didn’t want offed. These kinds of measures don’t need to be justified when you’re… well, you know.”

“A criminal?” Jason offers.   
  
Dick shrugs a shoulder, and helps him ease Slade down onto a stretcher. The two of them stay behind to help move more people and extract more data about who was running this place and why.

 

\-----

 

The itch of IVs at the insides of his elbows, the uncomfortable press of a catheter, and worst of all, the pressure of an intubation tube.

Slade can’t open his eye yet, but he’s conscious enough for a time to hear movement, rustling. Someone replaces one of the IVs on his right.

He can hear his own heart monitor and the rise and fall of the ventilator.

Before long, it all slips through the cracks again, leaving him in the dark.

He claws his way to the surface again, and he has no way of telling what time it had been the first time, or this time really. He doesn’t know how long he was in the pit or how long it’s been since he was liberated. Everything aches, and all these damn tubes and wires leave him agitated and waking up more than grumpy.   
  
When he does manage to open his eye after a bit of movement, he takes it all in. It’s a room, though not a hospital room despite the machinery. A house. The bed is far more comfortable than a hospital bed.   
  
Paper against paper catches Slade’s attention and he turns his head to look, which is uncomfortable with the tube down his throat.

“Morning sunshine,” Jason hums, setting aside his book on the stand between the bed and the chair he’s sitting in.

He’s dressed simply, a hoodie and worn jeans, he’s not even wearing shoes, just socks. He tilts his head a little to look Slade over, his eyes wandering in a way that makes Slade’s lips pull. He closes his eye so he doesn’t have to watch this brat stare at him.

“Can’t really ask how you’re feelin’ when you’re all- I mean, I don’t have to tell _you_!”   
  
His fingers tighten in the covers, muscles drawing tight. The heart monitor notes a slight increase and Jason ducks his head with a soft laugh, “Sorry sorry. They told me not to stress you out and I’m sittin’ here bein’ antagonistic. Habit.”   
  
He wants to sigh, he wants to speak, he wants to turn his damn head without feeling like he’s choking. He can’t even swallow without feeling the damn thing tug. Instead of dealing with it though, he reaches and moves to pull it out. Jason moves quickly, reaching for his hands, “Alright, take it easy. You needed it.”   
  
Slade’s eye is sharp staring at him and Jason’s hands still as his brows press in mild frustration.   
  
It takes work, but he pulls it out, only gagging once as he does and heaving a sigh with his own damn lungs, thank you. He pants slow but deep and Jason eases a little beside him.   
  
“You really are a stubborn old goat, aren’t you?”   
  
His voice croaks and creaks from disuse and the way his throat is raw, “Fuck off.”   
  
Huffing a laugh through his nose, Jason shakes his head and sits back down in the chair. “As long as you feel better, Slade.”   
  
He gets another death glare and only has a small smile to answer with. He really is just tickled pink by all this, huh?   
  
Slade eases with the thing out of his throat, he does honestly feel a little better. He swallows, even though it’s like choking down sandpaper with how dry his mouth and throat are.   
  
“It’s good to see the intubation helped, but I wouldn’t push it too hard. You’re still not healing properly. Well, properly for _you_.” Jason explains, shifting in his chair, “When we found you, you were going on two weeks without food or water. Without food that long, you can survive that. We don’t know how you lasted that long without water, but without all the energy and nutrients and shit, your body started breaking down. It wasn’t and  _isn’t_ healing like normal for you. Which… isn’t great.”   
  
“No shit,” Slade bites, and then coughs, dry and raspy and something that rattles his whole body.   
  
The hand to his mouth feels different, and it takes him a few long moments for his vision to stop swimming before he can take it all in. He’s thin now. He can see the jut of his wrist bone. He’s not a skeleton- not yet- but he’s not far off it right now. Lifting his arm takes work, but he looks at the loss of muscle along his biceps and eases his arm down before closing his eye.   
  
“We’ve been getting water and nutrients back in you, and the fact your trachea’s not too weak now, that’s progress. But it’s still gonna be a while at this rate.”   
  
“How long is a while?”   
  
“Couldn’t tell you,” Jason shrugs, “But I don’t think you’re gonna be getting very far if you try to make a break for it.”   
  
Slade shakes his head a little, exhaustion tugging at him like too many hands, trying to drag him under. He hasn’t felt this weak, this vulnerable, or this _pathetic_ , in far too long. He feels as though he’s dying. He isn’t, now that they’ve come to his rescue, like a bunch of knights in shining armor, but he still feels like it.   
  
Jason moves, but he doesn’t open his eye to watch him. He listens instead and Jason steps up beside the bed, standing still for a minute before speaking up.   
  
“Here, you should drink this,” he opens his eye to look at the offered glass of water. It’s not a lot of water, granted, but Slade understands moderation after his body had been put in such a state, “It’ll help with the dry mouth.”   
  
He regards it, and Jason, before turning his head again back into the pillow. He stands there for another long moment before setting the glass down on the table beside the bed, “It’s there when you’re ready,” and then tacks on quietly, “Stubborn ass.”   
  
The hard exhale of a laugh hurts.

 

\-----

 

“I swear, Todd, if you try spoon feeding me, I’m gonna shove the spoon up your ass,” Slade threatens.  
  
Jason sits by the bed where they’ve managed to prop Slade up. He slowly sets the bowl back down, quirking a brow, “Alright big man, _you_ do it.”  
  
His lips tug in something akin to a weak snarl and Slade reaches for the bowl himself. It’s still hot, and more than uncomfortable against his hand. But he has so little strength that getting the bowl into his lap is a feat all on its own. Lifting a spoon a hundred times to eat a bowl of soup seems daunting and just how pathetic that is makes Slade’s chest burn.  
  
He does it anyway though, because he has a point to prove.  
  
It’s simple broth, thin and watery, but he can taste the real honest chicken that was used to make it. Chicken is easier on the stomach than beef, which he appreciates.  
  
“What happened that you ended up in Tartarus?” Jason asks, one foot in his chair and his arm around his leg, the other propped up on the frame of the bed Slade’s settled in.  
  
“Offed somebody that somebody else didn’t want offed. Pretty standard.”  
  
“So you popped some guy, and some other guys didn’t like that, so they threw you in a hole to rot?” Jason asks, brows knit, “And you’re not angry?”  
  
Slade huffs a laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Oh, believe me, I’m fucking furious. But I’m also half dead and not healing. I’m not an idiot. They’ll get what’s coming.”  
  
Jason watches him eat for a few minutes before he shifts a little lower in his seat, seemingly settling in to stick around a while. He watches the way Slade’s hand starts to shake, and to compensate, he switches hands.  
  
“Has this happened before?”  
  
Licking his lips Slade glances to the side at him before going back to his soup, “Couple of times.”  
  
“Y-you’ve been tortured like this? A _couple of_ times?” Jason’s voice is thick with disbelief and a lick of anger.  
  
“Been tortured a lotta ways a lotta times. Meant I’ve been to Tartarus before. Wasn’t in the pit, but it’s not really Funland otherwise.”  
  
It’s not a lot of soup, but Slade can’t even finish what he’s given. It’s thin and weak and not much, and that just goes to show just how badly he’d ended up, if his stomach had shrunken this much. He sets the half empty bowl aside, almost dropping it, and Jason reaches to steady it on the table. Slade stares at him before taking his hands back, fingers clenching and unclenching.  
  
“You talk like torture’s not that big’a deal,” Jason says gently, turning his head to listen to something in the manor.  
  
“I’m old, Jason. I’m not a nice man. People don’t tend to be happy with me. It’s bound to happen,” Slade explains, and to him, it really is just part of life. He knows the risks of every job he takes, the vendettas he could be putting on his own head, and just how many people he runs the risk of pissing off on a daily. In some ways it’s exciting! In others, it’s incredibly exhausting. Coming out of Tartarus, he’s leaning closer to exhaustion.  
  
“I didn’t die this time,” he points out, “Sometimes that’s easier. Probably would’ve been nicer this time.” He lifts his hand to look at the way his wrist bone shows, at the way his hand shakes from the effort of lifting his arm.  
  
He lays his head back, even with the bed propped up, and Jason can’t help but think he looks tired. He looks tired in ways Jason isn’t sure he can describe. Like he’s seen too much, been stretched too thin. Stayed up too many nights, seen too many horrors. Slade looks as though the world as beaten him down time and time and _time_ again, and for whatever reason, he keeps getting up. 

Jason isn’t sure what drives him, because he can’t imagine the drive to get rich is that strong. He’s got to have a fortune in his floorboards in every damn safehouse by now. And yet, he’s seen the infamous Deathstroke in every major city, on far too many news channels, on everyone’s lips. People know who he is, and people have always known. He can’t remember a time where he didn’t know about who Deathstroke the Terminator was.  
  
And yet here he is, laying in a bed with a quilt over his legs, looking like he’s been hollowed out, physically, emotionally, mentally. Jason hadn’t been sure Slade could look as bad as he did when they found him in the pit, but he can’t help but think he looks worse now.  
  
“Why’re you here all the time, Jason?”  
  
His attention snaps, lost in thought about it all and he blinks quickly, “What?”  
  
Slade opens his eye and it trains on the man, “Why are you bothering to nurse me back to health like I’m some kind of infirm?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Jason shakes his head, “You should hear yourself.”   
  
He doesn’t give it much more thought or life, and instead stands up to collect up the bowl and glass and let himself out. He shuts the door behind him.  
  
Slade eases back into the bed, exhaustion threatening to drag him under again.  
  
He isn’t sure how much time passes, but he hears footsteps outside the door, two sets, one steady and purposeful, the other jogging to catch up.  
  
“Bruce, listen to me,” Dick says from down the hall, voice clipped in an attempt to stay quiet.  
  
The footsteps stop.  
  
“You have to give us more time with him. I really think we can get through to him.”  
  
Slade rolls his eye.  
  
“Don’t give me that look. You’re all about rehabilitation. Give this a chance, please. I think he can be a good man. He already does good things- alright, he does decent things in unconventional ways, sure, but I think he’s just… troubled.”  
  
Bruce finally speaks up, and his voice alone makes Slade’s skin crawl. “I don’t have the time right now to explain to you why this is a terrible idea, Dick. He’s a criminal. One of the worst out there. The number of people he’s killed is unforgivable.”  
  
“He’s sick,” Dick insists.  
  
“That doesn’t excuse the things he’s done,” Bruce is just as stubborn.  
  
“He’s helped so many people, Bruce. Good people. I’ve seen what he does for Joseph and Rose. He’s not always the best, but he makes an effort to make their lives good. Are we really just going to condemn him to Arkham for the rest of forever-”  
  
“Richard, you’re not helping your case. He’s a murderer. You cannot defend his actions.” Bruce sounds like he’s getting angry, which honestly is a bit of a feat. Getting through his impenetrable visage of calm and rationality. Slade supposes it’s probably because it’s his own son trying to defend a man like himself. He can’t imagine he’d have a better reaction if he were in Bruce’s shoes.  
  
“Jason’s a murderer. So is Damian. _So am I_.” The last one is emphasized with something Slade can only pinpoint as guilt. “When are you going to get-” 

The heavy footsteps start to walk away again and Dick calls, anger finally spiking through his voice, “You can’t walk away from this! Bruce!”   
  
Dick’s footsteps follow Bruce’s and before long, Slade is left in the quiet again.   
  
Acid licks up his throat. He closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep.

 

\-----

  
  
It isn’t until the next morning that he sees anyone, and it’s Alfred who comes in and opens the blinds to the sunrise. It’s not direct sun, which is nice.   
  
“Good morning, Master Wilson.”   
  
Slade shifts, taking in his surroundings again. He blinks slowly before looking Alfred over. His mouth is dry again. “Morning, Alfred.”   
  
He stops at the end of the bed. The look in his eyes has always been one that Slade watched carefully. Alfred has see the horrors most haven’t. He’s seen war, Slade can guarantee.   
  
“Is there something I can do for you?”   
  
Reaching to scrub a hand down his face, Slade sighs, “A message.”   
  
“To?” Alfred asks, moving around to tidy up some of the mess Jason has left behind.   
  
“William Wintergreen. I’m sure you’re familiar.”   
  
Stilling his hands, he turns to look at Slade with a smile, “Not by that name, but I am familiar, yes. What would you like me to tell him, Master Wilson?”   
  
It seems like Alfred finds this just as amusing as Jason does, the way they all seem to stop and smile about shit. What’s there to smile about? What’s so goddamn funny?   
  
He squashes down the lash of anger and paranoia and turns his head in the pillows, “Just let him know I’m… safe, I suppose. If he knows where you’ve locked me up, he’ll insist on coming to deal with this himself.”   
  
“And by _this_ , you mean _you_ , sir?” Alfred presses, face near impassive.   
  
Lips tugging into an annoyed frown, Slade shakes his head a little, “This entire situation.”   
  
“Your continued imprisonment, then?”   
  
He stares at the man for a long time. He wonders idly how many years difference there is between the two of them. Alfred has always seemed so much more put together.   
  
“My house arrest,” Slade huffs a laugh.   
  
There’s a long pause before Alfred nods his head once, “I’ll inform Master Wintergreen of your dramatics, sir.. Perhaps your captors will come to some kind of consensus on your ransom.”   
  
He lets himself out and Slade can’t help the smile that graces his lips at the snark of that man.

 

\-----

  
  
When Dick lets himself into the room Slade can’t help but feel that the door doesn’t actually serve as any privacy, but rather a mock of such. He glares at the man when he closes the door behind him. He doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, the guy’s got more guts than Slade gave him credit for.   
  
“How are you feeling, Slade?”   
  
Deadpanned, he just stares for a long few moments, “Like shit. Why?”   
  
“Alfred and Jason mentioned you were awake and looking a little better. I figured I’d come and see how you were.”   
  
Agitated by this whole fiasco, Slade doesn’t really have the patience for the way Dick seems to be tip toeing around whatever it is he’s trying to get to. He hates that sort of thing anyway, but now moreso.   
  
“What do you want, Dick?” Slade growls, brows pressed.   
  
Dick stops moving and watches him from the middle of the room. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “Cooperation.”   
  
There’s no answer, just Slade’s eye boring into him.   
  
“You still aren’t healing properly, and you show clear signs of PTSD-”   
  
“And you’re suddenly my therapist?” Slade scoffs, “Of course I have PTSD.”   
  
“Slade, this isn’t a joke,” Dick urges, face just as drawn, “He’s going to put you in Arkham if you don’t show at least _some_ sign of remorse or… I don’t know. I don’t know what he wants. But you have two choices, here, or Arkham, and we’d rather not see you in Arkham.”   
  
Lapsing into silence, Slade watches out the window instead. “Why are you so against throwing me in Arkham? Bruce is right. It’s what I deserve for the things I’ve done.” There’s no sense of guilty or bitterness in his voice. He knows he’s done wrong. He’s not an idiot.   
  
“Arkham is in a state of reform, which took a hell of a long time to get going. It’s not the best place for anyone right now. But we’re taking what we can get until things settle.”   
  
Sucking his teeth, Slade looks back at Dick, “So you want me to play nice and show I’m sorry, and hope that the big bad Batman- what- takes pity on me? Because I’m _sick_?” He rolls his eye. “Grow up, Grayson.”   
  
Dick stiffens at the change from Slade using his first name to his last name. His jaw is clenched and he haves a sigh, “You might be stubborn about it, but it’s all but decided already. It’s just a matter of if you’re going to make it difficult for the rest of us or not.”   
  
His body language is so tight, his eyes sharp. He really does just want to help. It figures. Bunch of bleeding hearts.   
  
“We’ll see.”

 

\-----

 

The next time Slade wakes, he can hear breathing in the room, but it’s soft and subtle. Whoever it is, they’re asleep. He’s got two guesses.   
  
Peeking a little, the room is dim, though the lamp is on a low setting. And sure enough, Jason is dozed off in the chair on the other side of the bedside table, his legs over the arm of the chair. It doesn’t look comfortable, but the blanket up around his shoulder and the book left open in his lap say otherwise.   
  
Slade doesn’t say anything, and instead reaches for the water on the bedside table for his throat and drinks it greedily, holding the mostly empty cup in his lap as he watches out the window. He can’t see much of anything from here, and certainly not the city down the hills like he kind of wishes he could.   
  


The breathing changes but he doesn’t hear Jason move. After a few minutes, he speaks up, because he knows Jason is awake, even if they’re at a stalemate waiting for the other. “You and Dick are adamant about making sure I get some kind of humane _care_.”  
  
Jason doesn’t answer at first, just watching him. Slade can feel his eyes.  
  
“Terrible, huh?”  
  
Shaking his head a little, Slade clicks his tongue, “The absolute worst.” He finally looks Jason over, head tilted just a little, “Why are you bothering? You, specifically.”  
  
Shifting in his seat, Jason sets the book aside before arching his back and stretching his arms over his head. When he goes lax, it’s with a heave of a sigh, “Did you want someone taking care of you who'd use this opportunity to make you listen to the ‘change your ways and become a better man’ speech again? I can call Dick in, if you really want.”  
  
“God, spare me,” Slade groans and Jason can’t help but bark a laugh in agreement. They both are all too familiar with Dick’s passionate rants about how they could both be better men if they put in the efforts. The potential he sees in them. Yadda yadda.  
  
They lapse into silence, and eventually Slade speaks up again, “That still doesn’t answer my question. Why are _you_ bothering?”

Jason looks as though he might answer, but he shrugs a shoulder and stands up to pick up the book and blanket.   
  
“You still need rest. Have a good night, Slade.”   
  
He leaves him alone with his thoughts, shutting the door so he can have some of that mockery of privacy again. When Slade eases back into the pillows, he can’t help but think this place is it’s own special brand of torture.


End file.
